


old times

by schmancie



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, Canon Retelling, M/M, snippets from the two years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 19:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmancie/pseuds/schmancie
Summary: Sam contemplates the past, present, and future during his tenure with Rafe.





	old times

         “I want a deal.”

 

         Sam cuts him a glare and shakes the pack of cigarettes Rafe’s handed him earlier. He doesn’t recognize the brand – the box is smooth and inexplicably pristine, meaning Rafe acquired it somewhere outside this godforsaken country and has probably stowed it away in some safe.

 

         Rafe passes Sam a lighter wordlessly – whether Sam likes it or not, negotiations have just begun. He doesn’t know how long Rafe’s been preparing for this, but judging from how the first thing Rafe does when they glimpse each other in prison after thirteen years is tossing him a bag of unspoiled fancy attire exactly his size, Sam hazards a guess: quite some time.

 

         The window rolls down as Rafe snaps an instructive finger, like he doesn’t trust Sam’s grimy and callused hands to touch the immaculate interior of his ornate vehicle. He shouldn’t: trust Sam, that is. It’s only fair.

 

         Sam lights the cigarette. “S’pose I don’t have much of a choice.”

 

         His mind is anywhere but here; he considers the practicalities and impracticalities of accepting whatever Rafe’s ‘deal’ entails, but it’s all ultimately futile when it’s clear to both of them this partnership won’t last for long.

 

         Both their prospects are vastly different: they both want the cross, but how they’re going about it pales in comparison.

 

         Sam thinks of Nate; wonders why it isn’t Nate sitting in front of him now, and why it has to be _this_ asshole.

 

         “Not really,” Rafe drawls informally, reverting to his normal self, millions of temperament blazing up his face at once – something Sam doesn’t know if he misses or not, but hell, it’s the first thing vaguely familiar he’s seen in thirteen years and he’ll gratefully take it.

 

         “Formalities’ sake?” Sam offers.

 

         “Formalities’ sake,” Rafe agrees – no, _allows_. The platforms are clear here. Sam isn’t the one in power. He never is, so it’s familiar; thus he accepts. For now.

 

         “We’re going back to our old arrangement,” Rafe decides. His fingers grasp unevenly at the armrest, searching for something he knows isn’t there. Sam peers out the window to huff tobacco.

 

         “What about Nate?”

 

         Rafe’s grip tightens.

 

         “We’re continuing without that little detail.”

 

         Sam looks at Rafe in the corner of his eye; the latter unabashedly stares back. Thirteen years hasn’t changed Adler much: Rafe still thinks himself the fire when he’s the one inching too close.

 

         Then again, Sam’s none the wiser.

 

         “You think you’ll pull through with only one Drake?”

 

         “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here,” Rafe reminds, reminds Sam that he’s the one towering above him, reminds Sam of old times and _goddammit he shouldn’t find comfort in_ this _kind of familiarity_.

 

He yearns for Nate, for _that_ kind of comfort from the _older_ times.

 

         “Better hope you’re shooting right,” Sam says, and he probably should dial back on his impertinence for even the old Rafe–the Rafe he spent his day-to-night cycles with, back in prison for months and left an aftertaste on Sam’s tongue, though bitter–has never been mild-tempered.

 

         He probably can’t help it – Rafe is far worse at hiding his own regression, shoulders already sloping a tad and inconspicuous fidgeting becoming prominent.

 

         “For your sake, _you_ should be hoping that,” Rafe grates.

 

         Sam sighs. The gray cloud billows and drags away with the salty breeze he’s come to hate.

 

         He glances back at Rafe. The latter taps the armrest impatiently.

 

         _Nate isn’t here_. “So half-and-half?”

 

         “Divides nicer than four,” Rafe allows. They don’t shake hands – they’re familiar enough with each other not to. Sam finds little formalities like that to be frankly cloying, and it’s child’s play to deduce Rafe prefers to forego decorum when dealing with partners like these.

 

         Nate isn’t here. Sam will settle.

 

 

 

 

         Sam isn’t sure what role he’s taken up in their ‘ _partnership_ ’. He’s quite certain Rafe isn’t aware as well, though the latter is decidedly by choice.

 

         Rafe is rather adamant about being the brains, although it’s clear the extent of his smarts when it comes to treasure hunting only goes as far as keeping his men in line and managing to not initiate a coup the moment he emerges.

 

         _It’s his money_ , Sam reminds himself. The standing Rafe has accumulated to reach this point: all because of his money. The very same thing that curses him with sleepless nights is also the thing that keeps him powering through them.

 

         There’s also the matter of Sam being rather certain Rafe is a clinical psychopath, but who’s he to judge?

 

         Sam embodies the more practical arm of the arrangement – he exercises his historical input and, to a degree, his physical capabilities. He jots down where they need to go, how they go about it, and Rafe gives the okay. He says when to strike, and Rafe says how hard.

 

         It terrifies him: how well they work together.

 

         He knows it isn’t without precedent. Since Panama, thirteen years ago, he’s become some sort of Rafe’s unofficial consort. Nate was free to roam about and find his own poisons, since Sam knows he’s the one who rooted his little brother’s sense of independence, but he doesn’t trust Rafe nearly as much; the Adler has a knack for throwing himself into situations impractically unbelievable, picking fights with brutes two heads taller and generally forcing past the influence of his monetary standing.

 

         So they have a system. It’s old, it dates back, and it’s the only thing that keeps them moving forward.

 

         Thus, Sam settles. He spends nights harkening Rafe eating up maps and coordinates, and languishes pouring his fountain of knowledge and precarious wisdom, dragging the tip of the pen across paper and making bold circles and lines of text that Rafe scrutinizes openly.

 

         Sam misses this. Misses the thrill of adventure, the hazard of making the wrong guess, the wrong step, the wave of adrenaline when it comes out true; hates how good it feels, surging through the rush without Nate.

 

         _Without Nate_. He looks up, finds Rafe gnawing the end of the red ballpoint absently as he glares down the markings Sam’s sloppily yet expertly made. Examines, analyzes deeply – he considers Sam, considers his knowledge and puts a foot in front of the other with him.

 

         They have a system, and it’s working too well.

 

 

 

 

         They make a wrong step.

 

         It’s not too drastic, but it’s the first in a while. They misinterpreted the numbers of a coordinate, circled the wrong part of the map, set up camp in some remote coast that’s so painfully wrong yet so obviously close.

 

         Sam realizes it isn’t his sole mistake: everything they do, they do as an entity. A unit. Rafe’s supply of trust isn’t as handsome as his vaults of wealth, and he appraises every bit of information obtained to the ineffable extremes. This misstep is one he’s actively participated in, yet as Sam faces the sea with an unlit cigarette hanging off his lower lip, he expects a bullet to the back of his head anytime now.

 

         The storm doesn’t brew.

 

         The weather is cool.

 

         The waters waft calmly.

 

         Rafe stands next to him and passes him a new pack of cigarettes.

 

         Sam eyes it for a little. Not entirely suspicious, but not because he trusts Rafe – rather because Rafe is unpredictable when it comes to things like this. “What’s this?”

 

         “Compensation,” Rafe responds curtly. His fingers are open, the cigarette laying on the expanse of his palm entirely. Like he wants the wind to carry it off.

 

         Sam pulls the lonesome cigarette he has now and pockets it idly. “What for?”

 

         A fist collides with his cheek.

 

         Everything swims in his head, not from the punch because it’s telling when Rafe has to _hire_ people to fight for him: excuses, arguments, for Sam thinks he’s going to die and his selfish ass won’t let this taste of his old life last _just yet_.

 

         _It’s your fault too, your fault for saying yes, your fault for keeping us up so fucking late just to stare and then say yes. Your fault for doing something you and your trust issues never fucking do_.

 

         But the bullet never comes. Sam rattles from the surprise more than the impact itself, but his eyes close in anticipation. He opens them.

 

         “The fuck–”

 

Rafe presses the pack of cigarettes to Sam’s chest.

 

         “I need my pills,” he mumbles, red in the face from simmering anger, then leaves Sam to let the sole Drake contemplate on the beachside by his lonesome.

 

 

 

 

         He knows.

 

         He knows that Sam won’t stay; it might be he doesn’t know why, doesn’t expect where he’ll go next, but Sam can’t interpret why he forcibly insists on moving them along.

 

         There’s a dance and Sam isn’t being taught the steps.

 

         Rafe paves the path forward, towards Avery’s cross, and he demandingly expects Sam to be there and lay the bricks with him. Those are the terms of their partnership, loose but surefire, and Rafe relies on it like a lifeline. He foresees a downfall but perceives it as a bump in the road.

 

         Maybe that’s just it; maybe he just doesn’t care. He cares about the now, what’s happening, their current progress towards the cross: he prefers exact calculations than tentative ‘maybes’ or ‘ifs’, and Sam’s fine to comply.

 

         Rafe doesn’t stress the future, and the same for the past: part of why he doesn’t outright _ban_ Sam from speaking of Nate but he’s quite clear with his standing. Nate is the past, and the past is no more. What matters is the current. The now. The partnership they’re teetering on.

 

         What matters is Sam remains, for now, for a little while longer. The future will make itself and the past is forgotten.

 

         He takes Sam to lavish events a younger Sam would absolutely loathe: soirees and luxurious bashes, dressing up Sam in sumptuous adornments and walking him around the ballroom imperiously. He tells Sam who that is, who this is, why you shouldn’t cross that one and why he wants to punch this particular one really, really bad.

 

         Sam is his plus one, constantly. “This is Samuel Drake, my plus one.” _Look pretty, nod, and shake their hand,_ Rafe taught him the night before the first one.      

 

         _Aren’t I already pretty enough?_ Sam had said wryly. Rafe shot him a dry glare and grabbed his hand into a complex entanglement, thumb here and index somewhere else incomprehensible.

 

         _You shake like this_.

 

         Sam gets it wrong, of course, a couple times on purpose; but Rafe keeps him around; calls him “Samuel Drake, my plus one” all night long, and “Samuel” other days. “Sam”, sometimes, after taking his pills.

 

         Samuel Drake, _my plus one,_ is the now, and the now is what matters.

 

 

 

 

         He counts the days.

 

         It’s not hard; he’ll lose track, once or twice, but Rafe is neurotic about spending his time and thus has taken up responsibility as a walking alarm clock. They have set and specific dates and times for digs and treks, down to the ballroom event next Thursday, 7:00 pm, and Rafe will never let them forget.

 

         He expects more from Sam, somehow. He always does.

 

         So Sam gets better at keeping track of time; he incorporates date and time to the sketches he makes on maps and the notes he puts in Rafe’s impeccable leather Moleskine, effectively counts down the days to pull off a trip, an excavation, a sordid betrayal.

 

         He’s counted a year and three months, and patiently bides his time.

 

         He thinks of what he’s waiting for. What’s keeping him from slipping out some night, steal a boat, flatten the pedal and to _hell_ with Rafe.

 

         Speaking of.

 

         Rafe says ‘yes’ easier now; Sam believes it’s due to his efficiency, how lately his predictions and leads have proven sufficient – more, even. Sam can’t afford less, after all, flipping through notes, sifting maps, spinning globes and examining compasses and historical texts; he’ll have to use these, not with Rafe, in the future – the future Rafe impatiently dismisses, the future Sam waits for.

 

         _Why is he still waiting?_

 

         It’s five am. The rattle of pills in its container fills the air; Rafe fumbles with it, bleary and restless.

 

         Sam peers up his own pillow. “You took ‘em two hours ago.”

 

         He chases them with the cold whiskey that lays on his nightstand – cranes his neck back, drunk enough with sleep to be brazen about the marks littering the small of his back, the dip of his neck to shoulders, up and around.

 

         “Half the four-hour rule,” Rafe bites out. “Twice the efficiency.”

 

         He’s not making sense.

 

         Rafe burrows into the duvet once more. The curtains are pulled shut, but Sam knows the time. He has Rafe’s Rolex on his side of the nightstand, and most of Adler’s clothes.

 

         “We startin’ late today?”

 

         Rafe grunts and doesn’t reply.

 

         Sam waits.

 

 

 

 

         He counts a year and five months.

 

         He’s still there.

 

         The future comes closer, taunts with the presence brushing at Sam’s fingertips.

 

         He already knows so much; so much about Avery’s cross, how to go about pilfering it, steps that may be necessary and leads thick enough it’ll support his remissive path no matter how hard he trips. He just needs Nathan, just needs to leave, needs to grab at the future.

 

         He doesn’t.

 

         Rafe whisks him away more lately, more tiny details to lace up and thus more hours spent into the night; like he knows it’s coming to a close. Their leads are sufficient and time running fast, Sam is aware that Rafe was entirely unsure they’d make it past a year – he’d loosened up after they passed that mark, too obvious; too easy.

 

         Yet he’s still there.

 

         He promises himself a little more time. Let Rafe run around tying up loose ends and racing against time and the inevitable, let him get tired of bringing Sam to stuffy banquet halls and his stuffy little ‘ _Samuel Drake, my plus one_ ’.

 

         Let him lose interest in Sam, let him stop thinking aggressively kissing Sam helps with anything when it does, let him find one side of the bed colder than usual as something alright.

 

         He doesn’t.

 

         Nights become later, progress becomes quicker, events come rapid-fire, he yells at Shoreline to work faster, he fucks with more pent-up anger that should be humanely probable.

 

         Sam recalls that this is really his _own_ fault. He’d been lured in by the sense of familiarity he’s craved after thirteen years in hellish confinement, been so stupid in his vulnerability he’d accept settling with Rafe of all other psychopaths possibly better – and now, there he was, seeking the future but finding now to be okay, extensively so.

 

         He won’t stay, he knows, but as long as progress continues and banquet food gets better, he’ll linger.

 

         A little bit more.

 

 

 

 

         Two years.

 

         The witching hours draw a breeze over the room, but Sam barely notices. He’s moving fast, quick, burns through his things and forces himself to spare nothing.

 

         The maps.

 

         Rafe is asleep.

 

         His leather Moleskine.

 

         He stuffs it all in a knapsack, one he’s nabbed from an inattentive Shoreline lackey; the one he typically travels with, he leaves where it always is, on his bedside, flat and vacant.

 

         Nathan. He’ll see Nathan again: find Avery’s cross with him.

 

         It’s two am.

 

         Rafe takes his pills about now.

 

         Sam turns to look over his shoulder. Rafe is near invisible under the bunched up duvet, but nothing moves. The air is still.

 

         Sam stifles the doubt that mars his intent – the night air has never been particularly kind to his psyche.

 

         He eases the door open.

 

 

 

 

         Sam counts two years, at two-forty-five.

 

         He seeks a new familiar.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Take from this what you will.
> 
> Big thanks and an apology to a friend, he introduced me to the game and I intend on making him regret that decision.
> 
> This was largely unedited but my first fic in a while, thus the first fic posted.


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